THE (S)ELECTION COMETH

As regular readers know, I believe the UK’s legendary ‘democratic process’ to be simply theatre. So I view the upcoming ‘election’ as a performance, in which actors deliver scripted dialogue in support of a ‘story’ the public will accept. If you, however, prefer to treat the (s)election as a real, genuine process, you must be overwhelmed by the tsunami of love and affection that is descending upon the newly anointed King of Brexit – Boris (Brexit) Johnson. If you believed the phamtasmagorical spin rotating like a new-born galaxy around his tousled crown, you might come to think Boris Johnson was in fact the Thomas Telford of Brexit, the initiator, the Conservative Spartan whose courage in the face of EU tyranny calls for the minting of a new medal. Hail Boris! Etcetera.

Such is the contempt with which the media views you and your kind. They assume you will swallow Boris the Brexiteer, just as the blonde butterball himself thinks yanking a bull on a rope for 20 seconds makes him Farmer Johnson

or pulling on an England shirt will transform him into Boris Beckham.

Yeah. Right. Remember his “Brexit or bust!” promise, which went bust on October 31st? That turkey went flying straight down the memory hole, clearing a path as it dropped, for the Brexit he will never, ever deliver.  For now the (S)election Cometh, and behold, green rivers of witless blurb come gushing from every dung-dangling orifice of mainstream media. In the parallel wankworld of the BBC / C4 etcetera, ‘election’ non-events are debated by nonentities on programmes nobody watches. While, the humiliating, cruel realities of life for most people in Britain are rejected as unworthy of discussion.

Parliament has become just another cable channel-like a low-budget arm of the BBC whose morbid obesity it gleefully feeds.Westminster Live! – a public toilet filled with slavering drunks and policy-pimps, that serves no purpose but keeping excrement off the street.

It’s a great big big club, ladies and gents, but you don’t get to swing it and you are not a member. As per the legalised mugging called the ‘TV license fee’, tramps like us are commanded instead to endorse -indeed, to loyally support– a rabble of honourable members. Liars, cheats, and chancers, every last one. Shallow, hollow, second-raters with no concept of life lived in the real world. Apeing the smug ‘newsreaders’ and posturing ‘interviewers’ who fawn and pet them, our cast of MP extras queue to chant their party-shanties like a pack of mangy euro-pirates howling at the moon.

While Boris, sailing above and beyond these mortals, held aloft on a cloud of passing wind, becomes synonymous with all things Brexit.  The chap who literally attended the European School as a child, and whose father was a professional EU Commission stooge. In Victorian England, such a transparent fake as Johnson would have been laughed off the stage. Mind you, the Victorians didn’t have 500 Daily Mail hacks yelling at them all day, or Twitterbots pumping Boris Brexit BS into their battered e-brains.

Seen in a theatrical context, then, the apparent chaos of British politics is reframed as a very orderly business. The Brexit performance wheel has been turning for such a long time now, spinning like the empty blue hoop that announces your internet connection is down. After three years of rehearsals, the cast are word-perfect, and every performance runs as sweet as a hell-oiled machine.

             ACT ONE 

Brexit Now! shouts Farage.

Brexit Never! shouts some Lib-dem nobody can name.

Brexit Sort Of! shouts the Tory party.

What’s Brexit? shouts the Labour Party.

ACT TWO 

Scene: The House of Commons : several months of pointless speeches have taken place.

PRIME MINISTER: “What about the Brexit thingy then?”

ALL: “We agree nothing!”

PRIME MINISTER: “Okay, lets have an election!”

ALL: “Hurrah!”

There you have it. That was the script placed on the PM’s desk in number 10 Downing Street while the cops were bundling David Cameron out the back door. How often will we watch this play? How many Prime Ministers will come and go before every last mug in the electorate understands that Brexit is not an option – not ever, never, period, end of story?

Shakespeare would have made a better fist of it, but you have to admire the circularity of the plot.

Will the Prime Minister’s Brexit Deal succeed? (NO)

How about this one then? (NO)

How about a a General Election? (YES)

Who will win the election? (EU) 

Will the Prime Minister’s new Brexit Deal succeed?(NO)

How about…

The reviewers -sorry, I meant ‘media’- have done a great job selling this mini-series.  Binge-watchers will appreciate how smoothly the propaganda -sorry, I meant ‘polls’- swung into action, insisting that the Brexit Party enjoys practically zero support in Britain. (stop laughing at the back!)

With delicious predictability, the Labour Party has simultaneously been bigged up as ‘unelectable’ with a familiar batch of hilarious negative coverage. This unsubtle tactic is of course intended to drive pro-Brexit left-wingers into the open clutches of the toothless Conservatives. (Farage’s lot can’t win, but at least Boris will…) yada yada yada.

Bear in mind that Boris Johnson is a rock-solid globalist patsy who would sell his mother’s corpse  to Jeffrey Epstein’s ghost before rocking the EU boat, as I reported HERE many moons ago. And if you reject Boris, Sajid Javid is waiting…and behind him waits a queue of identically corrupt bankster puppets as I explained HERE a thousand years ago…

Brexit Sort Of! shouts the Tory party.

And the blue wheel of disconnect turns, and turns again…

 

Brexit -the issue that paralysed British politics- has unmasked our ideological overlords for what they are: a hard-buggered crew of painted Quisling tarts. Thanks to internet information sources, we now have the largest number of ‘aware’ citizens in the UK than at any time in history. We should know better by now.

On the other hand, I gather that Amazon’s website gets 14 million more hits per second than www. GOV.UK. It’s not surprising. You’d soon give up online shopping if you ordered wings three years ago and Amazon kept delivering handcuffs.

But the government won’t refund your money, sucker. Governments don’t do ‘customer service’. You can order all the Brexit you like, but the van’s bringing another boxed set of Brexit The Fantasy – a series in 5000 episodes.

 

Ian Andrew-Patrick

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